The One
by ProspektsMarch161
Summary: He's always hated ships. 3 Months post-Aliyah. TIVA.
1. Swallowed in the Sea

**Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS, Ghost Ship, or Titanic. Although there is a shiny new donkey for whoever brings me the head of Colonel Montoya. (That was a Simpsons quote.)**

**Well, I do these based on flashes of inspiration. Which is what I got. About 3/4 of my fics are based on songs, which are usually kind of the inspiration. This is no different :D **

**I'm not sure about this, I don't know whether to do another chapter or whether this is enough...please let me know what you think!**

**And no this isn't a ploy to get more reviews. Much. }:)**

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He tries not to think _Titanic _as he steps off the chopper in front of his boss. As other agents spill out into the darkness of the deck he has to shout to reach Gibbs.

"You think they're armed, boss?"

Despite pulling out his Glock, he seems calm and shouts into the salty air, "Well if they are, they don't seem to have a problem with an armed federal copter landing on their ship." Dumb question, Tony decides. "That intel from Mossad didn't report any life signs on the ship, it's all we have to go on."

Even under a lifejacket and 3 months of built-up emotionally protective shell, the word Mossad is a pang to his heart. Luckily the roaring in his ears is so loud that he can't hear her voice in his head as he has done since May, but the cold hollow of the sea around him bears a disturbing resemblance to the cold and dark hollow he's been in recently. The hollow that Gibbs has had to deal with, the hollow that McGee has tried to dodge falling into. Unfortunately, he fell in the moment that plane took off the concrete.

"Hey," Gibbs snaps his fingers in front of his junior's face, something that's replaced the slap. "Come on."

It's then that he realises that they're the only people still on the deck next to the silent chopper, and he takes a quick glance up at the stars as his boss leads him inside the ship. For the past two summers he's been confined to some stupid ship in some stupid way or another, and he has grown to hate the inside. The low ceilings and tiny doorways that made him feel the entire thing was closing in on him, and the water drips that convinced him the cursed ship was sinking. Sort of like the feeling he's had for every mound of paperwork 'bestowed' upon him ever since she left.

She left.

He's still not really sure it happened. Not sure that she won't arrive one morning and sit at her desk, and start unpacking everything again. Or maybe that was only in his dreams?

"Hey!" His boss obscures his vision once again. "You can wait by the chopper if all you're gonna do is stare into space."

It takes a few seconds to get back to reality. "Right. So...ok. Where we going?"

Pulling out a torch, Gibbs pulls back a bolt and opens the door, revealing tunnels and doors pitched in blackness. Only a few calls between other agents around the ship and the quiet sound of waves can be heard – it's a big ship. Everyone's spread out. His brain switches to _Ghost Ship,_ and he wonders why his boss has to make it even more eerie by whispering when there's clearly no one here.

They walk for about 200 metres through damp and dark and drips when Gibbs stops abruptly, only a flash of silver hair to the torch-bearing agent behind him, and opens a door to an office-style cabin with space for a laptop and papers spread over the desk. It smells obscenely of sweat and Tony reels, grateful as Gibbs closes the door.

"Terrorists. Somalian. Mossad were right."

Mossad were right.

Not a phrase he's used to hearing lately. Not a phrase he particularly wants to hear in the future.

Something strikes him and Gibbs' eyes widen as they turn down a corridor.

"You hear that?"

Gibbs places a finger to his lips, and they listen.

"Crying."

And the running begins. Sprinting inside ships, Anthony DiNozzo's year-old way to get tired and sweaty in less than five seconds. Especially in a lifejacket that makes you look like a marshmallow. They run down slippery steps and along torch-illuminated corridors, going further until his boss, in true bloodhound-style, can trace it to one room. He doesn't bother with the bolt – kicks it hard and it smacks open. Shining a light into the dark, he makes out the beaten, sobbing face of Agent Chad Dunham.

"_Shit._"

Tony panics. What to do? Gibbs stands in the doorway motionless. Pushing past him is no option. Call backup? They would need backup. But what backup? Medical? Other agents? Where were the meds anyway? Were there any on the chopper? What about the chopper driver? Was he a med? His name was Eddie, wasn't it? How does he call someone?

"DINOZZO!"

Gibbs is inside, pulling the ropes off Dunham's hands and checking his face and wounds. "Call for meds. Tell 'em lower 678. I want you to check all the cabins along this corridor, then the cabins below. Anything you find, shout."

He makes the call, and takes a deep breath as he listens to Gibbs fire gentle questions and receive croaky responses. He makes his way down the corridor, sliding more doors open, but finds nothing but empty beds and stacks of paper. He doesn't even look in as he pushes the last door open. He sees the same darkness of every cabin, and deciding not to waste more torch battery, assumes it the same as all the rest, and turns to leave. As he ambles down the damp void once again, something makes him stop.

A sound.

A sigh.

A sign of life.

He can't take the chance of whoever it is being on his side, so he slowly and silently turns round and pulls his gun out of his holster, holding it next to his source of light. He shivers as the ship creaks.

What meets his eyes makes him drop his gun.

As if his faith in Mossad could get any worse.

It _is_ her. He can tell her face and her beautiful tangled hair – she's as battered as Dunham, and he's too scared to venture any closer in case...in case what?

At least...she's not dead. He knows that. He kneels down to the level of the chair she's in, brow furrowed, and shines the torch up to her face. It's beaten and burnt, but it is her. He could swear his heart is in his mouth, and the lonely stubble on his chin bristles as claustrophobia kicks in.

His mouth catches up with his brain as he raises a hand to her face.

"Shit..._Ziva..._"

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**Another chapter? OOC?**


	2. Talk

**Disclaimer: I don't own CBS, NCIS, Mossad, U2, Coldplay, or continental breakfasts.**

**All righty, so it's been a long time. But I got this inspiration thing again. Course, I didn't think I was gonna make this more than a oneshot, but I got an idea. Short chapters, but otherwise it's just full of filler and rubbish :D There's gonna be more chapters after this.**

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"It's past visiting time."

Gibbs faces off the bleary-eyed receptionist, and after well-delivered evils she resigns herself to steely eyes.

"Well, all right. But we can't be held legally responsible for anything that happens to you while you're here."

"Thank you," he growls, turning to walk up the stairs towards Dunham's room. The heat of the African hospital doesn't seem to succumb to night, and he wipes sweat from his brow as he carefully edges into the dimly lit room where the battered and bruised agent waits for what Gibbs hopes is going to be a short discussion. Coldplay booms out of the iPod deck, threatening to interrupt their conversation, and so Dunham reaches out and picks up the remote with a tired groan.

"Sorry," he croaks, "having to concentrate on lyrics makes the heat a bit more bearable."

He turns it down as Gibbs sits down in a leather chair that has seen better days.

"Agent Dunham–"

"Chad. This ain't Director Vance's office, _Jethro_." Gibbs smirks. "Not that I'd like it to be. Bad Karma around that guy."

"You think so?" Sometimes it's refreshing to know that he's not the only agent with reservations about their boss.

"I dunno." He shifts slightly in the bed and rubs his scarred chin in a gesture that could only be described as affectionate. "I'll cut to the chase, Gibbs. I don't know what Vance's motives were, but last I heard Mossad was investigating a terrorist cell based in Somalia. Transporting weapons to Al-Qaeda and all that. They had a couple agents working the case, I was based on my own in a small apartment in Mogadishu, and–"

He is silenced abruptly as a tall, black-skinned nurse budges open the door. He wears the smiley expression of knowing he's intruding, so he quickly places a tray of continental-everything on Dunham's lap and asks trademark questions about temperatures and pains. He slinks quietly out of the door before turning and giving a small nod of apology to Gibbs.

"Anyway," he mumbles as he bites into jam and roll, "we had too much information coming in, so I had to get one of the Mossad officers to help me. We sat there every day going through names and dates and meeting points, sending it all off to Mossad after we were finished. Luck was the officer I was working with had first hand experience of all of this – she'd been on some ship in the gulf." He swallows and takes a swig of dubious-looking water, a pained expression on his face. "Security wasn't great, and Mossad became more interested in what we were doing. My officer friend got orders to go out and deliver things, make deals, and I went with her. July time, it must've been. One went bogus."

Pieces form in Gibbs' mind, and as he runs through Dunham's speech they start to fit together. "They took you onto their ship."

"Yeah." He rubs the scars on the side of his face, like he needs to confirm that it all really happened. "They tortured us. They wanted information. I don't think I got it as bad as my Mossad buddy."

The senior field agent's eyes widen and he leans forward slightly.

"What information did they want?"

Dunham swallows, and Gibbs detects a hint of shame in his voice. "They wanted to know about NCIS. About what we'd been doing in accordance with Mossad."

"Did you give it to them?" Harsh reality time, he decides.

"I'm not gonna sugarcoat it, Gibbs. The Somalis aren't known for mercy."

There's a long pause as blue eyes demand answers.

"I told them what we'd been doing. I told them my friend was Mossad, and I told them what she'd told me."

Gibbs looks at him. "Well, Chad, perhaps that's why she got it worse than you." Chad's a nice guy, decent, brave. But now Gibbs can't help looking at him and seeing the guy that is part of the reason that there's someone in a coma next door. The iPod has switched to U2, and Gibbs watches Dunham mouthing the words as he mulls over what the past 2 months have entailed.

"I know this makes me an ass, Gibbs."

"Depends who you're talking to."

"It _makes me an ass, _Gibbs," he repeats, running a hand through his hair and looking out the window at the sunset-lit city. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Fire away."

"Do you trust Mossad?"

Oh, he's been asking himself that question ever since May. No, ever since July 2008. He thought he did. Revelations proved him wrong, and he left what little trust he had in Mossad on an airstrip in Israel.

Somehow, though, deep down, he knows he still trusts her.

"No."

Dunham snorts. "Right. Me neither. So you wanna ask me anything else? I've been awake and carted around for 27 hours, I could do with a good night's sleep."

"Yeah, there is one thing."

"What?"

"It's about the Mossad officer who helped you."

"Yeah, what?"

"What was her name?"

888

He stands just inside the door, gazing intently at a barely recognisable scarred face. She can't hear him, but that doesn't matter.

"You could have called."

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**So....**


End file.
